Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

“Which is brother Matthew?”

“He’s the old one, the happy one – well, usually, he’s not happy now. Poor man! He seems to have taken the whole affair worse than any of us. I suppose because he came over with the abbot from France.”

“Were they friends?”

“Oh, I suppose so… that is… well, yes.” He seemed unsure.

They continued in silence for the rest of the journey. David seemed to almost regret having said as much as he already had and merely grunted at any attempt at further conversation, leaving Simon with the uncomfortable sensation of being a confidante without the pleasure of a secret to hold. He was relieved when they finally came up to the farmyard of Clanton Barton, and he looked forward to speaking to the others with anticipation, hoping that they would be able to shed some light on the affair.

But when he walked into the room with the great fire blazing away he was struck by a complete inability to frame his thoughts clearly, let alone ask any questions. It seemed grotesque to be asking about the abbot’s past in front of these good men when he had only just died, but he could think of nothing else to do. And then again, he knew that he must try to find out as much as possible about the man. It was not a pure guess that he would find answers in the man’s past, it was more a premonition that there must be a logical reason for the murder; especially the method of the killing. Why else would he have died in that way? Either it meant that the killers had taken him and murdered him for no purpose, or they knew him and wanted to kill him for some very specific reason. So the question was: would anyone want him dead? Why would they want to kill an abbot? The only way to find out was to question the monks – surely one among them must have some knowledge of the man who had led them?

“I suppose you have all heard that we found your abbot’s body?” he started, as he walked in and sat down, looking around at them all. They had all started at the sound of Simon’s voice when he had entered, all turning swiftly to stare, as if panicked by the mere sound of a human, looking as frightened as a flock of sheep upon hearing a dog. Now they seemed to be listening intently, sitting forward on their seats as he spoke and staring at him with the fixed, eagerly frowning concentration of men who would try their best to help. He sighed, this was not going to be easy. “He was killed by someone who tied him to a tree and burned him – probably while he was still alive. Obviously he was robbed, but that hardly explains the matter, does it? Why should he have been killed in that way? Why would someone burn him like a heretic? I have no idea why or what could have happened, and I need your help.”

He stood and slowly paced the room behind the huddled monks, who turned to watch him. He kept his eyes on the ground, carefully thinking as he went, as if he was talking to himself and not to them, almost as if he was unaware of their presence. “He was taken from you, as if he was to be kept for a ransom; he was taken deep into the woods like a hostage. But robbers normally go in larger groups, they don’t usually go around in pairs. They stay within a group so that they can ambush travellers more easily. So were these men part of a bigger group, or were they alone? Only the two were seen, there were no tracks of any others, so it seems that they were alone.

“They took the abbot into the woods. That would be normal, to avoid the roads and make an escape before the hue and cry could be raised. But normally it would mean that the robbers would be trying to escape, to go somewhere safe, somewhere to hide with their hostage and his money until they could claim the ransom. These men simply tied the abbot to a tree and set fire to him. Why? Why would they do that?” He spun around and glowered at the monks. “I can’t see a reason.”

He slowly tramped back to his chair by the fire, sat and stared at them again. “So I want you to tell me all you can about this abbot. What was his name, where did he come from, why was he going to Buckland? Everything. Who knew him best, out of all of you?”

He tried to ask the question as gently as possible, but the monks all stared at him in silent alarm, as if they were scared that he might accuse one of them of wanting the abbot dead. Perhaps it was the shock of the realisation that this seemed to be no ordinary attack by robbers that held them so quiet, but after a few minutes Simon could feel his confusion at the lack of response turning to impatience.

He looked over at David, his voice harsher. “One of you must have known him, even if only a little. Who was he? What was he like?”

“He was a proud man.” It was a statement of fact, a mild comment, as if it was an easily pardonable fault in one who ranked high in God’s army. The oldest monk had spoken – no longer the cheerful monk who could wink as if snaring a joke, now he was a small, worried man who sat with his eyes cast down as if he feared the response of his brothers, but even as Simon looked at him, his gaze came up to meet Simon’s questioning scowl with calm defiance. He seemed to consider for a moment, then continued. “He had been a knight in France and had served the pope well, which gave him his pride, and he was favoured by Pope Clement, rest his soul, until Clement died. Afterwards he was offered Buckland, and he resolved to come here to spend his last years in peace and dedication.”

“Your name?”

“I said Matthew.”

“Thank you. So who was he?”

“His name was Oliver de Penne.”

“Why would he have been offered Buckland? Why not an abbey nearer his home? Why was he sent so far from the pope?” asked Simon, his eyes narrowing as he tried to understand.

“Why Buckland? Maybe the pope thought it would be far enough away from any old temptations, from anything in his past that could persuade him to stray.”

“How do you mean, a woman?”

The old monk smiled gently. “There are many temptations, bailiff. I do not know. Maybe, yes, a woman. Who can tell?”

“Do you have any idea why he was so worried about being attacked on the road?”

“Worried about being attacked?” The old man seemed genuinely surprised at the question.

“Yes. When I met you all on the road near Furnshill, he seemed very worried about being attacked. He kept asking me to join you on your journey and seemed annoyed when I refused.”

“Perhaps,” said the monk, shrugging. “I think many people are anxious when they are in new lands, when they don’t know the roads and the villages. I am sure that he was simply hoping to have the company of a man who knew the area.”

Simon thought for a minute. “Possibly,” he admitted. Now he thought about it, could he not have been wrong?

Maybe it was just the natural fear of a man of peace in a new and seemingly threatening country? No, even as he wondered, he knew that the abbot’s fear was more than the normal caution of a traveller. It seemed to be a deep-rooted terror, almost as if he expected to be attacked. “But, surely, if he had been a knight and was proud he would not have been so fearful of a new land? He must have travelled before.”

“Ah, yes, bailiff. Perhaps he had.”

Simon sighed. “Can any of you remember anything else about him? Anything that could help me?” None of them moved. They sat staring at him in silence, apart from the older monk, Matthew, who gazed imperturbably at the ceiling.

Simon held up his hands in a gesture of disgust. “Is there nothing more you can tell me? There must be something, something in his past that could give us a hint why this should have happened to him. I cannot believe that he was killed for no reason – even a madman would have had to have a reason to kill an abbot.” He had no answer. The monks sat still and quiet, staring in their shock and fear. “In that case I can do no more here. Good day!”